


Spatial Recognition

by Micey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Domestic Violence, M/M, Not brothers, alistair's the good guy this time, beaten but not emasculated, graphic mental and physical abuse, sam isn't though, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Micey/pseuds/Micey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TW: Mental, physical, sexual, and emotional abuse. </p><p>Dean is trapped in a violent relationship. His boyfriend of three years is an alcoholic in denial with a penchant for abuse. When his third hospital visit in two months has a devastating diagnosis, Dean realizes he needs to get out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bullshit, Dean-o

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot stress enough the possibility of a trigger. If you are uncomfortable with any of the subjects listed in the tags and summary, then please, feel free to skip several paragraphs. If you'd like, I can give you a brief summary through PM. I want everyone to feel comfortable here. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Nope.

"You can't even cook a fucking  _vegetarian_  burger right!" Said burger and it's plate are viciously thrown across the room. Dean ducks just before it shatters into jagged shards on the wall behind him, ceramic and food raining down on him. Hands curled into fists, Dean winces and slowly sinks to his knees.

God _damn_  him. Why can't he do a single damn thing right? He fucks up everything he touches, as Sam constantly reminds him. He's starting to believe it. Or maybe he's known.

"I am  _talking_  to you. Apologize for that  _piece of shit_  you call dinner." Sam knocks back his fifth bottle of beer and slams it down, rattling the table. His steps are uneven and blundering. A drunkard in his prime. And yet, a six-foot-four giant with the strength of a raging bull. Khaki slacks only serve to accentuate his long, lean, powerful legs. The tight pinstripe dress shirt hugs a broad chest and rigid muscle. To most, it's an incredibly attractive sight. Dean had been one of those people. There'd been a time when he'd stared, and stared, and stared. When he'd been awed that such a man would even  _consider_  someone like Dean Winchester, when he had gorgeous, stable men and women eating out the palm of his hand.

He's followed the recipe to a T. He knows it's done right. But what is his diminutive word against Sam's drunken authority?

"Sorry," he mutters, eyes trained on the ground, watching the laces of his polished boat shoes as they bounce daintily. He's expecting it when blunt fingernails scrape against his skull and tug none-too-gently at his short hair and he's yanked viciously to his feet. He inwardly flinches as Sam lifts a hand. Dean's head snaps to the side and he's momentarily blinded by the whiplash. Slowly, he faces Sam again. His once vibrant, joyous green eyes are now empty, and resigned.

Three years ago, it hadn't been like this. In fact, things had been great. Dean felt loved and cherished and wanted. For the first six months, his past didn't matter. It didn't matter who he was or what he came from. He and Sam had spent nights curled together on the sofa, sharing a bowl of popcorn as they watched re-runs of Friends and Seinfeld.

Sam hadn't always been so violent. Then, of course, as most stories like these go, he started drinking. Dean would accidentally drop a plate as he did the dishes and the cycle would begin. Drunken rage, the violent misuse of Dean's body, then, the apologies.

' _Baby, I'm so sorry._ '

' _Oh, Sweetheart, you know I love you._ '

' _I won't do it again.'_

Dean's personal favorite _: 'You'll be better next time.'_

For a while, Dean believed him. And he'd whispered 'I know, Sammy. It's okay. It doesn't even hurt'. Though his lip was split from the violent pounding of Sam's pelvis. Though his hips were sore from the finger-shaped bruises that adorned them. Though his eye was swollen shut.

Sam's hand tightens and brings Dean out of his reverie. He sucks air through his teeth in a quiet hiss as Sam slams his head into the wall, tugging at his hair. "Listen to me when I'm talkin' to you," growls the glorified lawyer. Dean's seen Sam in action. Ironically, he's watched Sam defend domestic abuse victims with a sort of ferocious determination that makes him both sick and curious. And angry. Long fingers grip his jaw tight and force him to meet brown eyes he once found beautiful. The pressure of his fingers is blunt and hard, enough to bruise. He doesn't flinch. It's well-known pain. He and bruises are well acquainted.

"On your knees. Turn around. Take off your shirt."

He does as he's told. The tell-tale sound of leather sliding through belt loops causes him to tense. There's no warning before the belt cracks harshly against his pale skin, leaving behind brilliant red welts that taper into a jagged, bloodied point. He can't help but cry out. Sam's decided to use the buckle again. Dean isn't sure how many times Sam hits him. He gets lost amongst the vicious smacks and snips of the folded leather. Near the end, he comes 'round to find himself flat on his front, the sole of Sam's shoe pressing his face into the pristine linoleum of their up-scale loft apartment. All on Sam's pay check. Lawyers really hit it big in New York.

When it's over, Dean's numb. Emotionally, mentally, physically. His head feels heavy. There's a thick, wet puddle of blood pooling beneath his head. He shifts to his knees and nearly cracks a molar as his shattered kneecap protests loudly. He doesn't remember much. Just the strangely hypnotic way blood had spewed from his mouth to paint the linoleum like contemporary art. He's dizzy when he manages to push himself into a sitting position. Concussion. His sixth, since his stay with Sam.

The kitchen is silent, save for Dean's harsh breathing.

Sam wipes his bloodied hands with a dish towel. "I'm gonna go to bed," he says quietly. Dean can tell the apologizing is about to begin. "Why don't you get this cleaned up then have a nice, hot shower?" He stoops and presses a kiss to Dean's forehead. Dean hums his assent and watches his retreating form.

"Y...es, Sah- Sammy," he murmurs, voice thick and slow. It feels as if something's been jarred loose. Or something's been broken. There's a ringing in his ears and he lifts a shaking hand. The left side of his skull is...dented. Something feels loose. He realizes he can't see out his right eye.

Dean scrubs his own blood from the linoleum for an hour, and showers for another half. When he eventually crawls into bed, it's just after eleven. Sam stirs and wraps large, seemingly safe arms around his battered body. His kneecap is swollen and the way Sam's trying to tangle their legs together is agony.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Baby. I didn't mean it," whispers Sam as he presses gentle kisses to Dean's forehead. Dean can't feel the left side of his face as he slurs a repsonse.

"Ah kn-uhw, Sah-Semmy."

oOo

He wakes to an empty bed and a blood-soaked pillow case. He leaves it submerged in cold water in the bathroom sink. Dean's well-versed in the art of removing bloodstains.

" 'm hea'ing ou'," Dean struggles to say around a thick tongue and foggy brain. as he leans against the entryway to Sam's study. The lawyer is seated at his desk, feet crossed firmly at its corner. His fingers pause in their rapid typing on his laptop as he lifts his head. Shaggy brown hair falls floppily against his forehead, still sleep-mussed. Sam smiles softly and stands. He looks nothing like the drunken monster from last night. Sleep-soft and friendly. Sam presses a gentle kiss to his swollen cheeks, the large gash at his temple.

"Remember, we have dinner plans tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't be late," Sam murmurs. His voice is so soft and Dean's foggy mind conjures a smile because how could this man ever hurt him? Such a gentle giant. Dean accepts the warm hug, pressing a sloppy kiss to Sam's bare chest.

Dean limps out the loft door five minutes later, barista apron tied around his waist. He struggles to fit his arms through the sleeves of his father's old, beat up leather jacket. His limbs are heavy. He doesn't notice, when he sees his reflection in the mirror walls of the loft elevator, that there's an odd cloud in his right eye. And it's blooming in his left. The left side of his head is still matted with blood, causing the short hairs of his sideburns to stick messily against the curve of his cheekbones. The first sign that something's wrong: he doesn't care. The blood doesn't register. Just the simple ' _ding_ ' of the elevator as he reaches ground floor and the quiet whir of the housing generator.

When he steps onto the city bus, it takes several tries to swipe his MetroCard, much to the disgruntlement of the other passengers. The bus driver, Mister Earl, as Dean's come to know him, frowns at Dean.

"Dean? You...you've gotta scratch there." One brown, wrinkled finger taps its owner's temple.

"I f'll."

Dean limps along after the sensor beeps his pay.

Dean makes to take his usual seat. Mama Edan, the blue-haired old woman that owns the Garden of Edan flower shop shuffles onto the bus, tennis-ball adorned walker preceding. He stands and offers his seat out of southern hospitality. Despite the protestations from seventy-five percent of his battered body, he grips a pole. The fog that's settled over his mind prevents him from seeing her gratitude shift to horror. Mama Edan stares at the side of his head like she's seen a monster.

Dean's seen monsters. They don't look like him. They look like Samuel Singer.

The bus groans and grinds to a stop twenty feet from the coffee shop.  _Cup O' Blis_ s. His place of work for nearly five years. It's the only positive constant in his life. The smell of fresh mocha in the morning is enough to make a bad yesterday a good today. The quiet hum of their blenders.

He doesn't see the gazes of worried strangers as he stumbles off the bus and into the light snow that covers the side walk. Dazed, Dean sits there a moment, letting the cool crystals sooth the burn of his damaged body. When a passing cyclist crushes his hand beneath their bike tires, he picks himself up. His vision is fuzzy, buzzing. Christmas lights are beautiful smudges against a grey-blue morning sky. Street lamps remind him of postcards in the way they blur.

Dean makes a mental note to buy some postcards.

His heavy work boots thump against waxed and polished faux-granite. removes his beanie, which hasn't been serving its purpose this morning. He couldn't fit it over the odd lump on the side of his head.

"Dean, you're la- Jesus fucking  _Christ_!"

He ignores Alistair, his cliché 'stern-yet-caring' boss, in favor of searching blindly for a coat peg. He only wants to hang his hat. Why is Alis shouting at him? A hand settles on his shoulder and yanks him away from the rack. Dean makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, as if he's protesting as well as sobbing.

"Wha- yuh doin'?" he asks, words blending and rounded. Unseeing eyes search in the semi-vision. There's a small sliver of sight, but Alistair is an otherwise unidentifiable mass with a single slash of red for his uniform collar. Like a watercolor painting.

"No, kid, what  _you_  doin'?" Alistair snaps. "Holy fuck, the hell happened to your head?"

Dean squints. He doesn't feel right, he doesn't feel well, he's in pain and the last thing he wants is more shouting. "I f'll."

The last thing he hears before his knee gives and his consciousness slips away is a softly muttered " _Bullshit, Dean-o._ "

 


	2. Milk World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel can't handle it, Alistair has to be the adult, and Dr. Novak has to attempt to force Gabriel out of an unwise decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING(S) FOR CHAPTER TWO: Mentions of physical abuse/domestic violence

Alistair really doesn't get paid enough.

Alistair gently settles Dean in the backseat of his car and gives a low shout of a summon. Gabriel Novak, the snarky as all hell assistant manager of Cup O' Bliss sits in the back, Dean's bloodied, damaged head cradled cautiously in his lap. The blood is probably ruining Gabriel's expensive jeans, but he doesn't mention it.

Chuck, the anxious, paranoid, frizzy-haired mess of a worker wrings his hands as Alistair rapidly delivers instructions. He's to close the shop and inform customers that there's been a death in the family- because people eat that sort of sob-story shit right out of your hand. Alistair slams the door a little too hard and Gabriel flinches.

Alistair swears under his breath several times as he hunches over the steering wheel, wiry arms flexed and knuckles bone white. Gabriel watches him with a tilted head, expression guarded. His lips, no matter the situation, are almost always curled into a perpetual smile. Now, however, they're turned down in an obvious frown.

"What?" snaps Alistair as he swerves in and out of lanes to get to the downtown hospital as quickly as he can.

Gabriel is stone-faced. "Think it was Singer again?" His voice is soft and his fingers card gently through Dean's short hair. Dean is family to him, no matter how fucking stubborn the man can be on a daily basis. No matter how much he refuses to just let Gabriel help him. He's like a little brother- though Gabriel can definitely say that out of the two, Dean most certainly possesses more life experience, more wisdom born of hardship and challenges. More than Alistair, who's been in and out of prison twice in his forty-nine years of life and knows every back street and alley way New York has to offer.

"I'm not going to make any assumptions yet," responds his boss. The steering wheel looks severely distressed beneath his hands. "But if it is, I'm going to kick that sonuvabitch's ass so hard, his mother's going to feel it." And that's a dangerous comment to make. Same is a widely-known, well-paid, well-equipped lawyer. No doubt, he's protected. Sam knows every little nook and cranny when it comes to suing.

"Alis..."

"I swear to Mary, Gabriel, if you try to talk me out of it-"

"Hell no. I was gonna ask if I could help."

"Sure thing, Novak."

There's a glint of amusement among the varying degrees of worry.

* * *

They pull up to the emergency room entrance and Alistair helps lift Dean onto Gabriel's back. Gabriel carries him through the automatic double doors while Alistair sprints ahead. "Al--fuck!" Gabriel shouts, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, Dean-o," he mutters. "I'm gonna get you to the best damn doc I know."

* * *

Dean is in surgery for four hours. Alistair paces a rut in the floor, nearly punches two nurses. Gabriel sits quietly, shaking the corner, Dean's blood dried and rust-colored on the palms of his hands.

* * *

"Cas, please. I'm the only family he's got- just let me-"

"Gabriel. You are well aware of the procedures. It will take months before the paperwork is even seen by an official."

"Castiel. For me. For him...just let me do this. He can't go back there. You saw him, Cas. You think he deserves any of that?"

"I ca-"

"Novak!"

Two heads turn as Alistair calls down the hospital corridor. He strides forward, anger masking his concern, though it lurks just beneath the surface of his scowl.

"I want a full sit rep," he demands, crossing heavily tattooed arms over his chest. He stares the doctor down. Clear, blue, expressionless eyes return his gaze, lacking the other's hostility.

"Mr. Winchester has been unconscious for eight hours. We cannot perform an entire evaluation without his full participation and awareness- thus, we've only gathered half the data necessary to make a correct diagnosis."

"Y'know you docs are real good at dancin' around shit. I need to know if that boy in there's gonna die. If he so much as stops breathing, even for a few seconds, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Mr. Winchester is blind-- indefinitely."

The silence in the corridor is magnified by the distant beeping of various machines, of the squeaky soles of dress-code nurse's shoes. Gabriel's lips purse into a thin white line as he looks away, crossing his arms. Alistair looks as if he might hit someone. Castiel doesn't blame him.

"His injuries were severe. The least extensive damage to his body are his broken fingers. He suffered extreme blunt force trauma and several skull fractures. The occipital lobe, which is responsible for vision, was compressed to the point of temporary...shut down. His vision isn't completely lost, as his pupils are responding to light and rapid movement, but-"

Alistair is halfway down the corridor, heading to Dean's room, before Castiel finishes speaking.

* * *

Dean looks no better than when they carried him in. There's a shocking amount of gauze wrapped around his head. The white strips have random dark splotches where Dean's blood has soaked through, as well as clear fluids as the wound begins to heal. Alistair stands at his bedside, arms limp, his expression unreadable. His fingers twitch, as if he's fighting the urge to touch the swelling that litters Dean's cheeks, the dark, blood red clusters. Eventually, he sits, occupying the only chair in the room. He leans on his elbows, hands clasped together, knuckles pressed against trembling lips. He's never seen a kid look so beaten.

His left leg bounces as he fights tears.

"He's never gonna wake up. Fucking bastard killed him."

Alistair watches him with a keen, understanding eye. He's seen men crouched over the bodies of their fallen brothers, and, metaphorically, Gabriel's been in that position for the past four hours. Alistair might not be a veteran, but he's seen war, he's seen death, and he's seen panic, pain, and desperation rolled up in neat little toilet bombs. Prison is a war zone. New York is a war zone. There is no neutral ground.

"Gabriel, you're suckin' all his oxygen. Sit back and give him some space, would you?"

Gabriel, never one to sit still, paces the small perimeter of the hospital room, as if he's prowling for Dean's first sign of life.

It doesn't come until several hours later. It rattles out of a battered and bruised body like death. Another breath follows shortly after, almost a wheeze. He twitches, face twisting, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him. His lashes flutter and Gabriel is by his side in an instant. However, mossy, vibrant eyes do not appear. Dean seems to fold in on himself as he begins to convulse. The numbers on his EKG begin to rapidly drop and Gabriel freezes.

"Dean? Dean-o? H-Hey, no- stop. Dean-" Gabriel desperately chokes on the man's name until gentle hands are pulling him away. The room fills as Alistair presses Gabriel's tear-streaked face into his chest. Warm, bony hands gently rub his back, attempting to soothe him.

"It's all right, Gabe. Shh, it's all right," he whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and turning him away from the scene. "Don't look, son. Shh, it's okay. It's okay." Gabriel's blunt fingernails dig painfully into the skin of his back through his tee shirt, but he doesn't mind.

They stand in the corner, looking on as white coats and blue scrubs flutter around a man that may very well never wake up.

* * *

1:21 AM. Dean rolls his head.

* * *

3:10 AM. "G...br'l...hm..."

Alistair leaves to retrieve clean clothes for the three of them.

Gabriel doesn't acknowledge.

* * *

6:38 AM. He's awake.

Dean shifts, grunting as he attempts to sit up. Gabriel's immediately there- Alistair's sleeping in the chair and doesn't wake from the soft sounds of protest that leave Dean's swollen lips as Gabriel gently presses on his shoulders to urge him back down.

It's the soft "Don't- wha'?" that whimpers from Dean's mouth that wakes the ex-con. Alistair places a steadying hand on his wrist, pressure light, assuring.

"Dean-o, man, please." There's a high note of desperation there that Gabriel just can't contain.

"Kid. Dean," Alistair says, tone gentle but firm. "Stop that, goddammit. You're scarin' Gabe."

Dean twitches toward him, head jerking. "What's goin' on?" he demands, his voice scratchy and raw, hoarse as if he's been screaming. He has. The hands on his shoulders are familiar. Large, warm, safe. He slowly, slowly relaxes into the pillows. His weak body trembles.

Dean blinks.

Blinks again.

A third time.

_Oh._

He bolts upright, stitches and gauze protesting loudly. 

"W-?! Gabe? What'd...what? Why can't I...?" His voice steadily rises in pitch as he questions his lack of sight. Everything's a murky, milky white with the odd vague shape that disappears as quickly as he sees it. He imagines this is what it's like when you drown. Vast nothingness surrounding you, the odd flash of light, the odd glimmer of hope that soon reveals itself as a simple mirage. 

This only happens in the movies, or in those trashy crime drama novels his mom used to read. Dean knows; he's read a few of them. He swallows repeatedly and lifts his hands, IV tugging. He scrubs at his eyes, desperately hoping to wipe away whatever fog is impairing his vision. He feels buoyant, floating. His hands miss by several inches and he releases a high-pitched curse because what the fuck? "Gabriel."

Gabriel watches Dean struggle, thin lips pursed in a white line, even as his hands continue to hold the weak, struggling man down.

Dean's efforts weaken until he slumps against his pillows with a moan of pain and a whimper.

While he's not entirely certain of the damage to his skull, he's very aware of the mound of gauze and tape and bandages that decorate it. Briefly, he skims his head with his free hand. The other lays still in his lap, an IV nestled firmly beneath the skin. It steadily pumps morphine every thirty minutes. Dean drops his hand with a disgruntled huff. They've shaved his head, but only on the left side. He suspects there are stitches involved. He takes a moment to indulge in his disgust of what he must look like.

Little does he know, he looks much worse than he thinks.

The hospital room is quiet, save for the steady beep, beep, beep of his EKG and whatever else they've got him hooked up to. Gabriel's hands slowly retract and Dean's alone in the vast white nothing. Beside his bed, Alistair has settled in for a second nap.

He thinks Gabriel's left until the soft hum of his voice rumbles several feet away. Dean strains his ears and just catches a reply.

"...can do...try..."

The excited whisper that follows sounds suspiciously like Gabriel. There's a soft 'oof'. Dean's curiosity gets the better of him.

"...Gabe?" he calls. "Who's that?"

There's an abrupt silence, followed by the shuffling of two pairs of feet. The whisper of clothing and the rasp of jeans sounds to his left and he rolls his head to the side, feeling spectacularly exhausted after his efforts in sitting up. A soft click, like a pen, and the rustle of paper.

"Hello, Mr. Winchester." The voice is rasping and gravelly- nearly unpleasant in tone, but otherwise decent.

Dean remains silent.

There's a soft intake of breath and Dean searches the white, finding nothing. "My name is Dr. Castiel Novak. I have been overseeing your condition for the past several hours." Dean thinks that's Life's way of making a bad pun.

 _Novak_.

"Okay. What's my condition?" _I'm not scared, I'm not scared, I'm not scared_

"Dean, maybe-"

Dean holds up a trembling hand, effectively cutting off Gabriel's sentence. He needs to hear it-- he wants to hear the full extent of a monster's wrath. He wants a valid, tangible, physical reason to completely hate Samuel Singer. And he's certainly about to get it. 

Someone clears their throat. "You have three fractured bones in your hand. Your skull seems to have taken the most brutal extent of the damage. The left temporal bone was virtually shattered, there is now artificial bone in its place. There are thirty-nine stitches. Your right knee was dislocated, right ankle sprained. You sustained several haematomas on your shins and back. Multiple lacerations on your back and lower thighs. Minor internal bleeding. Essentially, Mr. Winchester, you are a walking bruise."

It's said with such a matter-of-fact attitude and no-nonsense tone that Dean releases an involuntary giggle, shortly followed by a soft groan of pain.

"Mr. Winchester-"

"Jesus, call me Dean."

There's a pause. "...Dean. It would be more beneficial to your health and recovery if you didn't make any sudden movements."

Dean's in the middle of a light nap when a gentle hand shakes his shoulder. He grunts a noise of protest and blinks. Nothing has changed. His world is milk. What he would give for a single cornflake. 

"Mr. Winchester," a female voice chirps, pulling a grimace from Dean. "It's time for your meal. There is strawberry jello to your upper left, chicken noodle soup directly before you, and a cup of water to your upper right. I'm administering your medication through your IV. Have a nice meal, Mr. Winchester." And like that, she's gone. Alistair grunts after her.

"I don't think she has any kinda right to be that damn happy in a place like this," Dean mutters. 

"Amen," comes the simultaneous reply from Gabriel and Alistair.

He feels around his tray until he finds a plastic spoon, waves that around until it comes into contact with his soup. After one sip, he sits back with a noise of distaste. Dean can't stand hospital food- if it even counts as food. Dishwater soup and stale bricks on the side-- how quaint. He grumbles about that, feeling a bit more like himself now that he's had at least four hours' rest and a healthy dose of wonderful hospital meds. The food sucks, the narcotics are great, and the bedpans are changed regularly. It's practically a Hampton Inn. 

A soft swish of fabric on fabric and Dean turns his head. "Dean, eat your food. Your medication requires a full stomach." With a mutter and a grumble, he fumbles for his spoon again, begrudgingly swallowing a second mouthful.  "Gabriel, Alistair, may Dean and I speak privately?"

Dean stiffens and releases his spoon, sightless eyes flicking back and forth, attempting to discern any sort of movement. There's a distant blur, then nothing. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. There's the creak of a chair, a soft huff of breath, the click of a pen. 

"You're taking your condition and diagnosis rather well, Dean," comments Castiel, and Dean turns his head to the right.That tone is too goddamn conversational. Bedside manner tends to irk him. A rustle of papers. When Dean doesn't respond to his comment, Castiel continues. "I'm going to conduct a short survey that is given to all trauma patients. Please answer honestly and truthfully. This survey is confidential; it will be shared with no one. We'll begin when you're ready."

Dean is very familiar with these questions. His heart pounds in his chest as he nods.

A slow intake of breath. "Do you currently have a place of residence?"

"Yes."

Pen on paper. "Do you live alone?"

"No."

"With whom do you currently live with?"

"My boyfriend." Two years ago, Sam proposed. Dead had stepped out the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, sporting a day old bruise on his hip. He'd nearly stumbled over the giant of a man, kneeling before the bathroom door. Soft, long brown hair with just the slightest hint of a curl framed dimpled cheeks and a strong jaw. His grin had been so wide, so hopeful. Sam held up the ring like it was a gift from God. Dean had simply stared, heart thudding against his rib cage, desperate to escape, to be anywhere but there. After he'd scraped his jaw off the floor, he said no. For a moment, Sam had seemed so heartbroken...Dean nearly changed his mind. Then his expression had shifted from crestfallen to livid and Dean...well, Dean did his damnedest to forget every single second of that night.

' _It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to say yes right now. I forgive you_.'

"Can you provide his name?"

Brought out of his reverie, Dean hesitates, pressing the back of his head into his pillows as something not unlike fear curls in his stomach. He presses his lips together as they tremble. He inhales sharply. "...Samuel. S-Singer." His hands tighten in the sheets.

"You're doing just fine, Dean," Castiel reassures, the rocky texture of his voice, calm and sure, partially eases the tension that has his neck ramrod straight. "How long have you been dating Samuel?"

"Three...three years, yesterday." Some anniversary.

The scratching of Castiel's pen seems to be far too long-winded for the answers Dean's supplying. Sweat begins to gather on his brow.

"There are three questions left, Dean. You're doing fantastic." A warm, soft hand settles atop his trembling fingers and Dean eases his grip on the sheets. "Have there been any incidents of domestic violence or abuse, reported and not?"

He's shaking. He's always lied. Always. Because he has a home with Sam. He has shelter and food and, occasionally, love. Tears well in his eyes and Dean blinks repeatedly. The rapid view of the milk world does nothing to stem the flow of abrupt sadness and pain. Throat far too clogged and thick to speak, he simply nods. Castiel's thumb strokes soothingly over Dean's knuckles.

"All right," murmurs Castiel, voice softer than before, less clinical. "Approximately how many times has this occurred in the past three months?"

His shoulders are shaking with the effort to retain his sobs. He doesn't have enough fingers to show him. Dean remembers every single time. He's practically got a data chart in his mind of how many times Sam has used, beaten, neglected him. "T-Twenty-t-t-two," he manages. The incidents vary in severity, but he remembers each and every one.

Castiel's hand tightens nearly imperceptibly atop Dean's as he sucks in a quiet, sharp breath. "Last question, Dean. It's okay," he assures. "Do you have anyone to contact for immediate removal from your currently unsafe residence?"

"G-Gab-Gabriel Novak-k. He's-he's my e-emergency c-contact," he stammers.

There's a tangible shift in the atmosphere. "No family?"

Dean shakes his head. "N-No. Gabe's my-my f-family."

"Dean, I cannot release you to Gabriel."

"Please- please. You-You don't un-un-under-st-stand," he half-hiccups, half-sobs. "He- I-I-I-I can't go-go back-ck. Plea-ease, please."

There is utter silence, save for Dean's stuttering, choking breaths and the erratic beeping of a monitor. "I'll see what I can do, Dean. But I can't promise you anything," Castiel finally says, hand squeezing gently before withdrawing. The chair creaks and fabric swishes, and he's gone.


	3. Thou Art the Ruins of the Noblest Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has some relief, but is justice really so liberating?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: AGGRESSIVE ENCOUNTERS, MENTIONS OF PREVIOUS ABUSE
> 
> Sorry for the wait-- here's the chapter, bros.

“A ᴄᴜʀsᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴍʙs ᴏғ ᴍᴇɴ; ᴅᴏᴍᴇsᴛɪᴄ ғᴜʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ғɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴄɪᴠɪʟ sᴛʀɪғᴇ.”

One can't really appreciate sight until it’s gone.

It’s the little things he’s starting to miss: maneuvering around tables and chairs with ease, using the bathroom, drinking from a cup without bumping his chin. He misses faces. Not specific ones (though he does miss Alistair’s and Gabriel’s), but faces in general. When people greet him as he’s pushed slowly down the hallway, he isn’t sure if he should say anything in return. Maybe they’re not speaking to him at all.

Before he checks out to change clothes and shower, Gabriel leaves the TV on for him. As if it’s any kind of comfort that he can’t see the pictures that come with the words of various cartoon characters and sports announcers.

Incidentally, Dean’s well caught up on the stats for the Manchester United football team. And has developed a fair interest in the goings-on in soccer. He’s never really thought it was very exciting, not until he got caught up in the fan worship and the adrenaline and the chanting and singing. It sounds like a home he never had, a family he’s always desperately wanted.

On the third day, Dean’s found himself actually caught up in one match and the excited voices of the announcers has him nearly on the edge of his bed, head turned unnecessarily towards the television, ears straining.

“Rooney’s making his way to van Persie, tosses it over…oh hell, looks like they’re going to get it! _Right_ over Petr Čech’s head! Grand shot! There you have it—Manchester, five, Chelsea, three! Manchester United wins!”

“ _Hell_ yeah!” Dean barks, rattling his bed as he pumps a cast-coated fist in the air, whooping along with the thousands of fans on the television screen. Though his bruised and aching body protests, he prevails in his sportsmanship.

However, some spirits are short-lived.

“ _Dean_.”

The reaction is nearly instant. His ears fill with a bees, buzzing and droning out all noise.

It’s strange, the slick chill of fear that creeps up his spine and forces him to repress a shiver. He can’t remember ever feeling this terrified. The familiar tap-thunk of polished dress shoes closes in and he remains still, paralyzed by fear. In the background, an infomercial for some superabsorbent towel prattles on. He focuses on it, blocking out all other sounds, all other sensations, there’s nothing, nothing, nothingnothing—

“Please. Say somethin’.”

Dean shakes his head.

Large, familiar, warm hands settle on either side of his face. Dean winces, not entirely out of pain. “Please, please, talk to me,” Sam pleads, pads of his thumbs stroking his cheekbones, over gauze and bandages. It’s all so soft and familiar and Dean wants to sob in despair because he _loves_ it. This is the one part he’s reluctant to leave behind. This loving, caring, sober Sam that cuddles with him on the sofa when they watch movies. The gentle Sam that worships his body, praises his mind. The man he fell in love with three and a half years ago.

He whimpers, the excitement of the soccer match is gone, the adrenaline in his veins replaced by searing heat and freezing cold. With a trembling chin, Dean swallows his tears. They go down like bile; bitter and sour and sad. A soft, breathy sigh leaves Sam and Dean just can’t take how broken he sounds.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he rumbles in Dean’s ear, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder. Sam’s voice is thick with guilt and shame and tears. “Let me take you home.”

Dean blinks and a tear rolls sluggishly down his cheek, sliding down his neck until it soaks in the collar of his gown. “N-No,” he manages, arms limp at his sides as he beats down the temptation to wrap his arms around the man that put him here, to stroke the knuckles of the fist that Sam has brought down on him again, and again, and again. To stroke soft brown locks that feel like heaven against his fingertips.

“ _Please_ —“

“Sammy, I can’t—“

Suddenly, there are large, violent hands around his biceps, squeezing hard enough to hurt. He gasps, cold shock bursting across every nerve-ending in his body.

“You can’t leave me,” Sam desperately hisses, his breath hot against Dean’s face. It reeks of coffee. Sam shakes him hard; forcing a hiss of pain through Dean’s clenched teeth as his stitches tug uncomfortably. A familiar curl of heat licks in Dean’s chest. He’s angry, angrier than he thinks he’s been in a long time.

“Sam, stop it, you asshole. Knock it the hell off—“

“Shut the fuck up,” he spits, fingers tightening. Dean winces.

 “Let go. Sam. Sammy, _let go_. C’mon, you’re _hurting_ me—“

“What’s going on here?”

The harsh fingers uncurl and Dean releases a stale breath, sucking oxygen as the blood flows painfully back into his arms.

“Sir, visitation hours are from noon to six. It is currently ten forty-two. You need to leave, immediately. Failure to do so will result in security escort as well as restricted visiting.”

There’s a moment of silence where Dean feels one harsh, cold set of eyes on him. He remembers what it looks like to see liquid chocolate freeze into putrid coprolite. He shivers and scrubs a hand over his face. His biceps pulse rhythmically; two twin pistons of pain. There's harsh breathing, like a bull prepared to charge and attack, seeing nothing but redredredred. The tap-thunk footsteps of designer shoes retreat without so much as a goodbye. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until gentle, unfamiliar hands pull his blanket to his chin. Dean turns his face into his pillow, rubbing absently at his bruised upper arms.

“Are you alright?” The gravelly, rocky texture of Dr. Novak’s voice soothes the terrified shudders.

He shakes his head, utterly rattled. Dean’s nearly forgotten the way it feels to fear for his life, to wonder if anyone will hear him scream, or if it’ll be painful. 

“Do you want me to stay?”

He shakes his head.

* * *

The Novak brothers stand face to face, looking nothing alike. Gabriel, with his pointed chin, squared jaw and mischievous brown eyes, aside to Castiel, with perpetually stubble-coated cheeks, full lips, and keen, clear blue eyes.  Castiel’s just a few inches taller in his white coat and sea-foam scrubs. A shock of dark hair in contrast to rich honey and caramel. 

Gabriel’s thin lips purse, a precautionary measure to keep them from trembling. He crosses his arms, looking away from clear, honest eyes. “I don’t understand,” he says, low and measured, thinly veiled betrayal.

Castiel’s hand settles atop Gabriel’s fist, where it’s balled up in the crook of his elbow, knuckles stained white. It’s a brotherly gesture, reminiscent of their youth, when holding hands was okay as they skipped along. Long fingers uncurl and briefly hook with Castiel’s before retracting.

“Gabriel,” he murmurs softly, rasping tones as soothing as his bedside manner. “Your schedule does not permit the type of care Dean needs. He’ll need around the clock service.”

“I can do that,” insists Gabriel.

A soft sigh and Castiel’s hand shifts to Gabriel’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Perhaps, if you hired a nurse, I may push the paperwork through.” Muscles beneath Castiel’s hand bunch and coil as Gabriel shrugs his hand off. Gabriel can’t afford to hire a part-time nurse. Not with the money he’s making at the coffee shop.

Anger, an expression not oft used by Gabriel, is written plainly in the hard set of his jaw, the rigidity of his posture. “Do you know what’ll happen if he goes back?” he hisses lividly. “He’ll die. You see him right now? Nothin’ close to what could happen to him. _Cas_. Let me _do this_ for _him_.”

Castiel’s mouth opens, then closes, opens again. “I…” His eyes flicker to the open doorway where Dean rests, exhausted from a second seizure not minutes after their discussion of Dean’s abusive household. The blood that had trickled from his nose has been wiped away. His cheeks have been shaved graciously by Alistair. The cannula was reinstated. Gabriel’s eyes trace Castiel’s gaze.

 The anger dissipates. Gabriel’s lips can’t remain stiff any longer. His eyelids can’t keep the tears at bay. His hands clutch at Castiel’s back as he yanks him forward into a bone-crushing embrace. The second eldest Novak brother shakes in the arms of the youngest, holding on for dear life.

“C-C-Cas, pleas-se. H-He needs a-a-a h-home,” Gabriel all but begs into the slope where neck and shoulder meet. It's so strange to hear that tone again. Castiel, Gabriel, and their brothers hardly went without as children-- born to an esteemed physician in his prime and a starlet of a mother, they had money for whatever they desired. However, that didn't stop Lucifer and Gabriel from whining about ' _his is bigger, why's mine so little?_ ' or ' _he got more than me. that's not fair_ '. It's not a whine for himself, though. Not this time. Now, it's a plea for Dean. 

Though they rarely engage in contact as full-body and emotional as this, Castiel wastes no time in lifting his own hands to Gabriel’s hair and back, stroking soothingly. “Shh,” he whispers against his temple. It’s never been an easy thing—watching Gabriel cry. The boy with the sweet tooth as long as Castiel can remember. The care-free older brother who had a natural talent for dealing with bullies. There is nothing sweet about the salty, bitter tears against Castiel’s skin. Nothing at all.

Dean slips in and out of consciousness, unaware of the conversation transpiring just outside his door. 

* * *

 

“Dean, c’mon, just—will you just _give me your goddamn leg_?”

Gabriel has been trying to wrestle Dean’s sweatpants on for nearly five minutes, attempting to lift the heavy leg brace and even heavier cast. However, Dean’s medication has him wandering the fields of Never Never Land, traipsing through the forest with Peter Pan at his side.

Dean releases a short half-snort, half-giggle. “– that _tickles_ , Gabe,” he insists, rolling his head uselessly on his pillows. Alistair has his phone out, calmly taking a video of Dean’s drugged, cuddly tirade. He grins unknowingly at Alistair’s phone.

“Know what else is gonna tickle? When I shove my _hand_ up your ass and twist,” spits a red-faced Gabriel as he finally yanks the fabric on.

“Now, Gabriel,” Alistair soothes as he slides his phone into his pocket and his hands into Dean’s underarms. “That’s no way to treat such a happy invalid.” He grunts as his lifts Dean off the hospital bed and into a waiting and locked wheelchair. Dean’s not much help.

“Guys, Jesus, guys—d’you see those shadows? It’s like… _Death_ , or somethin’,” Dean comments in awe, slurring every other word, his milky eyes twitching in all directions.

“Yeah, alright, Dean-o. Mhm, I see them shadows. They sure are pretty,” Alistair comments absently. And that’s how their trip to the front desk goes. Dean stares wide-eyed at seemingly empty air, eyes flicking back and forth like he’s seeing something magical. He probably is, the weird bastard. Christ knows what he’s seeing in that blind world of his.

_

“How is he?”

“He finally shut the hell up,” Alistair supplies—unhelpfully.

Castiel rolls his eyes and drapes his coat over a kitchen chair. His keys jangle loudly as he tosses them on the breakfast bar. “Has he complained of any abnormal or excessive pain? Headache, nausea--?” Hiking his foot onto the chair, Castiel begins to unlace his shoes, picking at the leather laces.

“He’s complainin’ about the unicorns runnin’ around his arms and legs.”

Castiel pauses. “Christ. Okay. It’s likely the weight of his braces and casts. I’ll look in on him.” Castiel walks stocking-footed across the living room, dropping his shoes by the entertainment center as he does, and knocks lightly on the guest room door.

“—hm, wha--?”

“Dean, it’s Dr. Novak. May I come in?” he calls through the door. Castiel pushes the sleeves of his white long sleeve to his elbows. They aren’t permitted to wear extra clothing with their scrubs, but it’s simply a thermal precaution.

There’s a short pause, a thump, then a muffled, “…if you wanna.”

Castiel turns the handle and gently pushes open the door. He’s greeted to the sight of tangled blankets and a heap of casts and bandages spread across the floor, containing one Dean Winchester. His gaze flickering to the perfectly useful bed, then back to Dean, Castiel sighs.

“Have you forgotten my instructions on strenuous activity?” he asks mildly. The doctor crouches and slips his hands beneath Dean’s shoulders. He’s helped patients into beds countless times, which has resulted in a muscle bulk and extreme tolerance for the intolerable. Such as, Dean Winchester. As he gingerly lifts Dean’s cast bound leg into the bed, Dean grunts in discomfort.

Castiel places a probing hand on Dean’s exposed knee and feels for tension. Dean hisses and attempts to bat his hand away, missing by just a few inches.

“Didn’t think sleeping counted as strenuous activity, Doc,” Dean quips through gritted teeth, eventually latching onto Castiel’s wrist and pushing his hand away. Castiel purses his lips.

“You weren’t sleeping,” he says matter-of-factly. “Where I pressed on your knee just now—on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt and one being no pain at all, where would you rate your pain?”

Dean’s face contorts as he mulls the options over, a small furrow dipping between his brows. Castiel notes he has far too many laugh lines for a man his age.

“Can I do halves?”

“If you think it necessary.”

“Seven,” he finally answers. Castiel nods.

“The medication I administered to you this morning—did it have any adverse side-effects and would you be opposed to taking it again?” Castiel locates the bottle on the bureau and checks the dosage with a sigh. Far too high. He’ll simply split them later.

Dean snorts and his eyes fix on a point to Castiel’s left. “The fuckin’ unicorns, man.” The other seems to sober, however, his expression shifting to one of uncertainty. “I saw some pretty weird stuff. Well, not _saw_ saw, but—I guess I saw it in memory? A dream? It really freaked me out. Shadows and shit.”

Castiel nods in understanding. “Such side-effects are not uncommon. Don’t worry,” Castiel assures him. “I’m going to feel around your elbow, now, just above your brace. Are you opposed?” Dean shakes his head, then sighs—a world weary sigh, an ‘I’m so damn tired’ sigh that Castiel knows all too well.

“Is there a problem?”

He rubs his eyes and stares blankly at a spot beside Castiel’s head. “—…I’m really fuckin’ tired, doc. Ain’t you got something in that doctor bag of yours to make me sleep?” His eyes are still clear emerald, no sign of damage. They pierce Castiel with their deep-seated pain and exhaustion. They’re pleading and Castiel can oblige.

“If you aren’t opposed to needles, I can administer an intravenous sedative,” Castiel supplies, forcing his gaze away from Dean’s. There’s only so much burden a man can carry—adding another’s is beneficial for neither party.

“I’ll do anythin’.”

Castiel gently settles a hand on Dean’s shoulder in warning, and then carefully moves his fingertips down in increments. From his experience with the visually impaired, he’s learnt that contact is key. Continuous contact is an assurance. If both hands are on Dean’s arm, then there’s nowhere else they can be. It’s also strategic when dealing with victims of varying types of abuse. Gently, Castiel fits the pad of his thumb just beneath the padding of the brace’s lining and massages. Dean winces, but otherwise shows no signs of extreme pain.

“We’re going to do the scale again—one to ten, how is the pain?”

“It’s not so bad—I mean, it hurts, but not like my leg. Uh…five and a half?”

“Five and a half.”

Castiel kneels beside the bed and gently lifts Dean’s uninjured arm. His knuckles are still swollen and bruised—

He fought back. Briefly, but he did.

This knowledge pinches Castiel’s lips and softens the dip in his brows. “I’m going to take your pulse. Just breathe regularly.” Castiel’s forefinger and middle find the pumping vein in Dean’s wrist and press. He looks down at his watch and counts each pulse.

“A little fast, but you’ll be fine.” Castiel stands, setting the medicine bottle back atop the bureau. Dean shifts and props himself up on an elbow, forehead wrinkling. The worry lines.

“…are you leaving?” he asks, looking uncertain as he stares into the hallway behind Castiel.

Castiel sighs. “Yes. I have to prepare dinner and retrieve your medications.”

The other man sags and lowers himself back into the blankets. “Where’s Gabe?” he asks after several moments of silence. His posture is extremely uncomfortable; his back and neck straight, his arms stretched out oddly at his sides.

“Sleeping on the sofa.”

“Oh.” Dean looks dejected.

“If you’d like, I can wake him,” Castiel supplies. Dean’s expression is disheartening. It suddenly occurs to Castiel, looking around the barren guest room, that it must feel incredibly lonely. Dean’s impaired vision aside, he must be incredibly lonely.

“Yeah, I just…I really need to see h—talk to him,” Dean says, correcting previously acceptable terminology.

“He’ll be in in a moment.”

* * *

 

Gabriel is startled from a restless sleep by a hand shaking his shoulder. He brushes it off with a muttered “Get off, Alistair”.

“Gabriel.”

Not Alistair, then. Gabriel cracks open an eyes to find Castiel crouched beside him, looking oddly upset. Of course, you couldn’t tell just by looking at him. Castiel always seems to have this bubble around him that allows him to maintain a standard expression. Propping himself up on his elbows, Gabriel’s brow furrows.

“Cas? What’s wr—is Dean okay?” He swallows thickly. Castiel seems to notice his distress and settles a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Dean’s alright. He’s still in pain, but he wants to see you,” Castiel says, his usually icy blue eyes soft with compassion. Despite his stoic and stern exterior, his brother has a large heart and is far more compassionate than any of their other brothers. It’s why they’ve stuck together all these years.

Gabriel swings his legs over the side of the sofa and scrubs at his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll go see him, now,” he says quietly, voice still thick with sleep. When Gabriel pushes open the door, he refuses to acknowledge the bruising that litters Dean’s face and arms and hands and legs. Most of them are deep, rich red that makes Gabriel want to vomit.

“Gabe?” Dean’s gaze searches blindly.

“Hey, Dean-o,” he greets softly, reassuringly, summoning whatever restraint he has. The urge to tug Dean close and hug the pain away is overwhelming. He’s done it several times before, but not with Dean this broken and bruised. He steps into the room, not bothering with the door, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

Bright emerald eyes stare at his ear and Dean’s smile falters. Gabriel watches his lower lip quiver for just a second before he’s running his hand through Dean’s hair, carefully avoiding the stitches, softly soothing him as tears flow unshed down Dean’s cheeks.

“Gabe—I-I don’t know w-what the fuck I’m gonna d-do,” he stammers, wide-eyed.

Gabriel runs a gentle hand down his back, avoiding various gauze patches and bumps, his fingers soothingly tracing the knobs of his spine through a thin white t-shirt.

“Shh,” he softly shushes him. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. We’ve got it worked out. The police are looking for that bastard right now—“

“ _What_?” Dean’s voice is thick, yet shrill. “He’s gonna—he’s, he’s good at lying, Gabe! That’s his job! He’ll be away from the police station an’ lookin’ for me in days.” Dean’s hands grip Gabriel’s shirt in a white-knuckled hold. He looks frantic. Terrified. Desperate. Gabriel hates it. He hates that bastard for turning Dean into such a frightened man.

Dean resumes sobbing until he’s wincing and coughing, holding his side. “…ow,” he mutters miserably, rolling his head to rest against Gabriel’s thigh.

Gabriel’s fingers card softly through his patchy hair. “Cas’s goin’ out for your meds, I think. Shouldn’t be very long. In the meantime, if you want an alternative, I know where he keeps his Southern Comfort.”

Dean huffs weakly at the joke, and then sniffs. “He’s got your taste in liquor. Speakin’ a Castiel… you never told me you had a brother. Well, I mean, ya never mentioned Castiel.”

“It’s a long story, kid. I’ll tell you when you’re medicated.”

* * *

 

There’s a bright headline the next morning:

_**NYPD INVESTIGATES THE GOLDEN LAWYER: SAM SINGER** _

 


	4. Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few things come to light and Dean learns to suck it up a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: POSSIBLY MISCONSTRUED ABLEISM, RECOVERY

They don’t tell Dean about the article. Not yet.

\--

They tackle walking first.

Gabriel holds Dean’s elbow while Dean shuffles cautiously across the room and into the hallway, cane in hand, dark sunglasses in place. They’d forgotten them back at the hospital and Castiel had been just this side of bitchy. When Dean stubs his toe for the fifth time on the same corner, he grunts in frustration and throws the cane down.  The plastic thing bounces off the hard wood with a clatter and rolls just under the entertainment center.

“This is total bullshit. I feel like some goddamn cripple,” he barks, yanking his elbow out of Gabriel’s grasp. He stalks with surprising accuracy to the sofa and slumps down. He stares blankly at the wall just beside the TV, listening to Wheel of Fortune. He stays that way for nearly two hours because Gabriel’s given up on being pleasant around the asshole that is an invalid Dean Winchester.

“You are a fucking cripple, okay? Get the hell over it, kid. There are people worse off than you,” Alistair finally says from the kitchen, where he’s fixing some sort of pasta.

Dean glares at him. It’s not that it’s a truly painful insult, he’s used to Alistair’s gruff commentary after years of working for him, but he’s new to this. “Go fuck yourself with something sharp,” comes the harsh, offended retort. Dean crosses his left ankle over his right knee and tries to school his features into less of a wounded animal. He hears a snort to his right that sounds suspiciously like Gabriel and promptly flips the individual the metaphorical bird. “You too, asshat.”

“Love you, too, honey.”

Yeah. It’s Gabriel. The fucker.

\--

Dean falls asleep on the sofa, slouched awkwardly on his side, pinning his brace clad arm beneath him. He’s awoken by a gentle hand shaking him. Dean immediately jumps, lifting his free hand as a shield. When no blow, no unwanted touches come, he lowers the hand and opens his eyes, which closed out of instinct. Judging by the nearly imperceptible glow behind the milky white of his vision, he can guess it’s pretty late. He yawns and tries to sit up but is interrupted by needlelike pains that shoot through his elbow and crackle through his left side.  His gasp seems incredibly loud in the silence.

“Careful, Dean. You’ve been sleeping on it,” a rough, gravelly voice assures. Dean turns his head towards Castiel and winces at the pain in his neck. “I’m not sure why they didn’t move you. Come on, I’ll help you back to the guest bedroom.”

An arm asserts itself around his waist and his own arm, with much useless gasping of pain from Dean, and he’s lifted from the sofa, leaning heavily on Castiel. He’s breathing hard by the time they make it to the guest room. Dean’s still incredibly weak from blood less, rest, and hunger; it’s as if he’ll never be able to eat enough to make up for all the meals he missed within three years.

Dean’s fingers hold tight to Castiel’s scrubs, using the other for support. He can feel the slight bulk beneath his hands and is struck, not for the first time, with a deep sadness that he can’t see for himself. When he was little, his dad used to tell him ‘we look with eyes, not hands. Stop touching shit, you don’t have eyes on your fingertips’. But that’s really all Dean has now—eyes on his fingertips.

That scares him a bit.

Castiel seems to sense the sudden tension because he pauses after carefully lowering Dean to the low-lying bed.

“Is something wrong?” asks Castiel. Dean’s socks are pulled gently from his feet, each time with a gentle hand on his knee or his ankle. He finds the touch comforting, oddly enough.

Dean swallows. “You ever had a blind patient before? Y’know—have you talked with them about what it’s like?” he asks. Castiel releases a soft sigh. There’s a slight pause and Dean wonders if Castiel’s left already, fed up with Dean’s whining. He wouldn’t blame him.

“May I sit?”

Dean shrugs. “Your house, man.” The bed space beside Dean dips and there’s more body heat to warm Dean’s cold skin. It’s chilly in the bedroom, which he prefers, but Castiel’s warmth is nice nonetheless. A hand settles reassuringly atop his hands, which are limp in his lap. Dean jerks himself away. Castiel’s hands are dangerously close to something Dean has been protecting for the past three years and a short time before that. The hand reasserts itself in a safe, conspicuous spot on his shoulder.

Dean releases a breath, the stale air wheezing past his lips in relief.

“I have had two other visually impaired patients. I can’t give much detail as it violates my oath and their privacy, but I can tell you that they’re faring well, right now. Both are surprisingly successful—“

“What do you mean ‘surprisingly’?” Dean asks, blinking as he turns toward Castiel, following his voice. It’s distinct, which he imagines is part of the reason he likes it so much. It’s comforting, if not clinical.

Another sigh. “Typically, those who suffer from something as severe as visual impairment tend to have lesser success rates than those who have not. It’s mostly psychological, the lack of success.”

Looking incredulous, Dean’s brows furrow. “That’s…That’s fucking ridiculous.”

Castiel doesn’t know if he should assume this is a negative reaction or otherwise. “I admit it’s a bit unfair, yes. But—“

“No. _No_ , fuck that. So it’s just assumed that blind people aren’t gonna succeed? Just because they’re blind? I know plenty’a cripples that are successful as hell. ‘fore my uncle Bobby died, he was in a wheelchair for months after this really bad junkyard accident. But he was still successful in his business and his marriage and he still could pull his weight. To think that—“

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is hard and it forces Dean’s mouth closed. It’s then Dean realizes his eyes have been watering and his cheeks heating. He breathes heavily and stiffens his upper lip, blinking back the tears.

“What?”

“Stop twisting my words. You make it sound as if I’ve automatically thrown you in the metaphorical trashcan of the employed pyramid,” he says with such conviction that Dean feels a little guilty. “Maybe I should have clarified—in my experience, there have been ups and downs, and the downs outweigh the ups where employed success is concerned.”

Dean mulls the information over, then sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “Shit. What if I’m like the majority? What if I can’t do shit because of—of _this_?” Dean emphasizes by removing the sun glasses and pointing at his milky eyes. Castiel’s hand shifts and lifts, settling high atop Dean’s back. His muscles bunch and coil out of habit.

Castiel’s thumb rubs soothing circles through his t-shirt. “If you truly believe you no longer can function within the working world, then that is that. It’s simply a matter of: are you willing to try?” Dean tucks his head to his chest and releases a puff of relief. He knows a few choice people who would laugh at his question or dismiss it.

Dean’s silence must say something to Castiel. “You’ll get there, Dean. I assure you,” he says. Castiel pats his shoulder and stands with a grunt.

Dean reaches out blindly and his fingertips graze Castiel’s wrist and his mouth opens, shuts, and then opens again. “Cas, I—do you gotta go right now?” he asks. Gabriel and Alistair are at work and he can’t stand being alone in this fairly large apartment. With the echoing walls and cold hardwood floors and dangerous glass side tables. He’s been Charlie horsed in the thigh far too many times. It stopped being funny after the fourth time in one day.

Dean takes his silence as a yes and releases his wrist.

Castiel stares down at fingers wrapped around his wrist, feels callouses that brush the soft, vulnerable skin of his inner wrist. And then he watches them leave, slither away as if they’re a chastised animal, and fall to the bed sheets.

“Dean,” Castiel says firmly. “You need to stop assuming things of people. I think no less of you because you are impaired. Do not assume I do.”

Dean’s empty gaze falls and his Adam’s apple bobs repeatedly. Castiel sighs and sets a gentle hand atop Dean’s shoulder, feeling the large muscle of his deltoid beneath his fingers. The muscle flexes in response. “In three days you will be cleared for slight exercise and physical therapy. As your assigned physician, it’s my job to assure you do so correctly and efficiently.”

Dean looks pained and Castiel chuckles softly. “However, I am willing to overlook said requirements and instead take a walk to Cup O’Bliss to greet your fellow employees.”

The change in demeanor is almost instant and Castiel knows he’s made the right decision.

\--

On the fourth day, Dean brushes his teeth by himself.

\--

“Dean-o. Get up, man, it’s time for your meds.”

“Wh--? _No_. Wha’th’fu--?” he slurs, burrowing beneath his blankets, covering his exposed chest and hiding from the chilly air of the room. He cracks an eye and sees it’s still dark—early morning dark. The ungodly kind of early morning that makes Dean want to vomit by simply thinking of it. He’s groggy as hell from sleeping nearly sixteen hours straight. His arm hurts and so does his leg—especially his leg. It occurs to him, amidst the large blanket of ‘I Don’t Give a Fuck’, that he should take his meds for the pain.

But then again, he’s in a blanket of ‘I Don’t Give a Fuck’.

“Hey, Princess, get the fuck up. I’m not dragging your whiny ass around the house again ‘cause you didn’t take your pills,” Gabriel gripes at him. “Fine. You wanna be that way?” The bed sags beside him and suddenly there’s a mountain of large, warm, Gabriel settled atop him and Dean can’t breathe.

It’s his fault, Dean thinks, that he never told Gabe about his fear of being unable to escape. Not exactly conversation you have over a cup of coffee and definitely not something that just comes up.

Dean squirms and his breathing quickens. He’s lying on his stomach so his face is pressed into the pillow and he just manages to his head to the side before he suffocates. He can’t find the breath to scream, to say anything, and he’s wheezing, and wheezing and—

“Gabriel! Move, now!”

The weight is gone but Dean still gasps noisily into his pillow, eyes wet, his pillow smudged with red from where he’s bitten through his lower lip in his terror. He sounds like an asthmatic with his breaths rattling loudly in his lungs.

“Cas, what—“

“Get out. Immediately. I’ll speak with you later.”

The door opens and shuts and Dean’s breath is loud in the room. He’s trembling; chest rising and falling rapidly in time with his pounding heartbeat. A large, warm hand settles atop his own bone-white knuckles; his fingers are twisted in the sheets in a desperate attempt to ground him. Solid objects are his anchors. They are real when Dean feels he isn’t.

Castiel voice is soft as it washes over the dark room.  “Dean? Are you alright?” There’s a soft rustle and the sound of a drawer opening and closing. “I have a prescription rescue inhaler. It’s yours. Do I have your consent to administer such medication to you?”

Through his wheezing and coughing, Dean manages a nod. Smooth plastic fits between his lips and he automatically breathes in as a helping hand presses down on the canister. The relief is so great; tears prick Dean’s eyes and flow down a stubble coated jaw. He’s waiting to shave it—he wants to do it on his own. Gentle fingers card through his hair and Dean cries a little harder. It builds until he’s clutching the pillow beneath his head as his body shakes with ugly sobs and he works through the panic attack.

Castiel maintains the soft, comforting but distanced, contact.

When Dean finally quiets down, his blurred vision is the slightest bit lighter, with a back light of blues and blacks. He’d be fascinated if he didn’t feel sick. Dean’s stomach twists in knots, rolling and unrolling. He feels like he’s going to hurl.

“What time is it?” he asks hoarsely.

“Five…eleven,” Castiel replies. His voice isn’t soft like he’s just witnessed a distressed animal yank it’s foot out of a bear trap; he sounds normal. Like it’s a normal conversation they’re having. Dean appreciates it much more than he can ever express.

“Shit,” he mutters, wiping his eyes. “It’s—I haven’t had one’a those in forever. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

The silence before Castiel speaks sets Dean’s teeth against the bleeding, swollen skin of his lower lip. “Don’t apologize, Dean. It’s not something you can control, as of right now,” the doctor assures Dean. Dean doesn’t feel reassured. He sighs and sags into his pillow, exhausted, even though he’s slept a considerable amount.

His voice is muffled by the cotton against his mouth. “They’ve never been that bad,” he murmurs, guilt licking up his spine to mingle with the shame. He’s a grown man kicking and screaming like a toddler. He hates it. Hates who he is, who he’s been made into. Hates who made him into this broken, useless asshole of a guy. The tears threaten again and he sniffs with a softly muttered ‘goddammit’. Castiel takes it in stride, his hand never faltering in its course through Dean’s hair.

“Shh,” he shushes softly, scratching lightly through dark blond strands. “This is what I’m here for. To help you with this. We can talk about it whenever you like. Not now, but whenever you’d like. But we have to talk about it some time. How are you feeling, right now?”

He sobs harder as Castiel’s voice becomes softer and gentler.

“Scared a-as f-fuck-ck,” he finally manages. And then he releases a deep sigh because fuck if his chest doesn’t feel so cramped with that off it.

\--

Gabriel avoids him after Castiel explains what happened. Dean sat in, in case anything got misconstrued or Gabriel needed further explanation. Gabriel was so quiet that at one point, Dean asked if he was still in the room. Gabriel had simply given him ‘I’m so sorry, Dean-o’ and a half-hearted pat on the shoulder.

He corners him in the hallway, able to recognize his gait at this point. He swings his crutches around and whacks the other in the shin with surprising accuracy. Gabriel curses and stumbles.

“Hey, asshole, where’ve you been?” Dean grunts, irritated.

“Look, Dean—“

“No, Gabe, you look. I get you’re sorry and shit, but I kinda need you around right now. And hiding around like a pussy ain’t gonna get you any brownie points.”

Dean swears he can feel steam pour from his ears in the silence. He’s so pissed at Gabriel. Alistair and Castiel can’t be around enough to help Dean out, so Dean’s left to himself a lot more than he’d like. He can barely make it to the bathroom without banging his knee or his crutch on something sharp or falling over. Goddammit, he needs Gabriel around.

Not just for physical support, either.

Dean feels his own expression crumbling, the anger melting away to exhaustion. He’s so damn tired of doing things by himself. Even Dean can admit he doesn’t have enough emotional strength to do this alone. He needs help and he’s not too proud to admit that…this time around.

Warmth envelopes him and his crutches fall to the side as Dean clings to Gabriel with his good arm, relishing in the familiar embrace. “Missed you, man,” he grunts into his neck. Gabriel just nods into his neck, hand rubbing soothing circles into his t-shirt.

Gabriel lets Dean hobble to the sofa on his own, resting his crutches against the wall. The TV rattles on and Dean sits back, content to sit here for hours.

“We are live at Foley Square Courthouse. Samuel Singer, renowned New York lawyer, is currently exiting the building.”

Dean tenses, but doesn’t move. His breath catches in his throat as he listens.

“—Mr. Singer, is it true you’ve been accused of domestic abuse?”

“Ah…no comment.”

Sam’s voice sends shivers and mixed signals up Dean’s spine. Dean crosses his arms and squeezes his bicep hard, nails digging into soft skin. He misses that sound. The deep resonance of Sam’s voice as he softly wishes him a good night. As he says ‘I love you’ over and over into the shell of his ear or the crook of his shoulder. As he wakes him up in the morning. He misses his lips against his cheek and his soft hair tucked beneath Dean’s chin when they lie together on the sofa. God, he misses him.

The things he doesn’t miss are obvious.

“Do you have any idea where your boyfriend might be now?”

“How in the hell does she have the clearance to ask those kinda questions?” Dean half-barks. Gabriel jumps at his outburst.

“Hell if I know. Police said no one would get into the story.” Gabriel sounds as upset by the questions as Dean, who is chewing through his lip.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. “—god _dammit_.” The tang of blood spots his tongue.

“—Mr. Singer, do you have any idea where—“

“No. _Comment_. Don, get them _outta_ my way.” Donovan’s an old friend to Sam who occasionally serves as a bodyguard. Like that one case when the convict-turned-pastor because a child molester. He threatened to ‘end’ Sam, so they posted Don. Needless to say, those were the best months of Dean’s life. Hard to beat the living shit out of your boyfriend when there’s a much larger man in the living room flipping through _Entertainment Weekly_. Dean wonders if Don supports Sam or if he’s just in it for the pay.

Dean wraps himself in the warm, soft afghan from the back of the sofa and maneuvers his head into Gabriel’s lap. Coarse jeans brush his cheek and fingers weave softly through his wispy hair. It’s growing back in patches. When the stitches are removed and Castiel gives the OK, they plan to buzz it.

“Want me to turn it off?” Gabriel asks softly.

Dean nods. “Put Spongebob or some shit on. Somethin’ happy.”

“Whatever you want, kid.”

\--

When they try walking without an aid, Dean cries.

He can’t do this shit. 


	5. Two Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They tackle the walking thing again and Dean learns a few tricks. But shit happens to the best of us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: RELAPSE, VOMITING, DISCOMFORT DUE TO ABUSE

There’s nothing but the brisk wind in his hair and the sun against his cheeks. There’s no cane. There’s no accident. Just a small, miniscule, existential crisis in the middle of Central Park.  With a warm hand on the small of his back, comforting, safe, good intentions mapped out in the spread of a large palm, Dean wonders why he’s here, alive, if only to suffer through all this bullshit. If only to lose his sight halfway through his expected lifetime.  But then he wonders why he deserves the warmth that seems to radiate off Castiel, even with the frigid temperatures.

“…foot, one. Right foot, two. Or you can count by two if you’d like. However, it’s more accurate and effective to count by ones,” Castiel’s voice fades in, like a badly filmed movie, along with the sound of cars honking, branches cracking beneath their feet, dogs barking. The smells hit him like a ton of bricks. Hot dogs, burnt bread, coffee, wet stone, something disgusting and distinctly trashy and urban underneath it all. He’s lived in New York for a long time, and he’s used to it. But knocking him out of his mind like that—it’s like being thrown on a different planet. It really is a concrete jungle.

Even through his shock, Dean manages to grunt, “I know how to fuckin’ walk.” The hand against his back presses, as if to assert some kind of dominance or maybe give direction. Either way, it makes something distinctly uncomfortable, not in the good way, twist in Dean’s stomach. Gentler, he twists away from the hand.

“Can we take a break? We’ve been at this for hours,” Dean suggests. He counts the steps back to the bench and sits heavily. Dropping his head into his hands, he waits for the knot in his stomach to untie and give him some breathing room. He’s been trying, he really has, to integrate himself into the system Castiel, Gabriel, and Alistair have set up for him. He’s definitely getting the physical aspect of this blind thing down. The walking with the cane, the feeling with his fingers along the walls, the walking with his feet. Seriously, he’s learned to use his toes as a guide to avoid going over a curb.

Before he sits, Castiel takes the initiative and settles a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dean never even had to explicitly tell him what happened with Sam. As a doctor who’s probably seen this countless times before, Dean trusts Castiel’s judgments. Thus far, they’ve been helpful, though some a bit high-jumped. Such as, changing the sheets without asking Dean. It’s not a pet peeve, exactly, but if he staggers into his room and hears a _whoosh_ and a _patpatpat_ , he kind of loses his shit. Also, Castiel hospital-corners the bed.  Dean can’t stand it. His life’s never been organized or tucked in, never catty corner or spick and span. His life has always been chaos, so Dean makes sure his bed, really the only thing he owns, is just as chaotic as he is when he leaves it.

He hears Castiel’s sigh beside him and sits up. “Sorry,” he mutters, just to fill the awkward silence. As good as he is at sweet-talking people and getting his way, he’s not good at these hard-hitting moments. Though you’d think his whole life would have prepared him for social interaction. Maybe it did and he just forgot. Concussions will do that to you.

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel murmurs. “You’re trying. You realize you didn’t need my help to get to the bench, right?”

Dean nods. “Seventeen steps from the tree or twenty-seven from the hedge with the giant-ass stick in it.”

He can’t see Castiel’s smile, but he hears it in his voice. “Exactly. See? The steps-system is effective.”

“Yeah. S’pose so,” he responds, blowing into his clasped hands and rubbing his palms together. “C’mon, I’ll walk you to the coffee stand.” He says with a small smile. His lip is still scabbed and pulls when he laughs or smiles too wide, but from Gabriel’s told him, his face is healing well. But he still looks like shit, because Gabriel’s a give and take kind of guy.

“You remember how many steps?”  Castiel asks, standing with him. Dean settles a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as a backup guide and nods. Castiel keeps his hands down, Dean notices. He’s grateful for that.

Eighty-six.

At forty-eight, there’s twelve right steps.

At sixty, it’s forward again and straight on ‘til morning.

Steps tentative, he sets out, placing his feet forward like feelers, running over cobblestone and concrete.

“One, two, three, four,” he murmurs under his breath. Castiel said he’ll soon be able to do it in his head. Dean dips his head, staring at nothing but the smudges of dark against the filmy, milky background. He’s gotten used to it, by now. Dean focuses on the background noise. Cars and footsteps are his priorities. It’s New York; even “I’m blind” isn’t a good enough excuse for bumping into someone on the sidewalk. So he needs to be careful and keep his feet straight—one foot in front of the other.

But he still has Castiel to gently nudge him out of the way.

“…seventy-nine. Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, three, four, five, si—oh. Made it.” His toes bump the cart. Castiel’s hand tightens warmly.

“Excellent,” he murmurs in Dean’s ear. “I’ll take it from here.” As Castiel’s hand leaves his shoulder, Dean’s stays. He squeezes back, grateful for the anchor.

“Two black coffees. Two sugars in each,” Castiel rumbles to the vendor, who just grunts.

“Wanna doughnut?” the vendor says, and Dean can hear the strained smile that clearly says ‘buy a fucking doughnut or I’m going under’.

“Yeah, I’ll take one. Glazed,” Dean responds before Castiel can.

“Thanks, pal.”

“No problem, buddy.” There’s a thick silence.

“Well, you gonna take it or what?”

Dean has to think quickly. As much as he’s getting used to this blind thing, he feels a little out of his depth. He recalls how wide his shoulders are, how far away the cart is. It’s like a chart in his mind. How far out the vendor will likely extend his arm. Not far, in case Dean tries to snatch it and run off. Halfway. He’ll have to lean forward and reach.

He thinks maybe Castiel understands what he’s doing, because he hasn’t made a move to grab it.

Dean extends his arm, almost tentatively, like he does when he’s touching the walls, waits for contact. As soon as he reaches crinkling paper, he wraps his hand around it and pulls back. A weight lifts from his chest as he gently squeezes his fingers to feel the soft give of the doughnut that’s surely in the wrapper. It’s a huge accomplishment.

He’s seen movies and shows about blind people. How their lives are so hard. But the shows never show the inside, what it’s actually like. They show the outward effects and what it does to families and the people around them. Dean never would have guessed it was like this—calculating, pre-planning everything.

Castiel’s hand squeezes again and Dean knows he did well.

They continue down the side walk, Castiel leading Dean now, as they haven’t mapped out this part.

“It’s weird,” Dean says around his donut, which he has hanging off Castiel’s shoulder, where he rests his elbow comfortably. He’s a little bit taller than Castiel, he thinks, though it’s not a drastic difference.

“What is?” Castiel asks, voice muffled by his coffee cup.

“It was like…a math equation or something. Parabola? Is that what it’s called? I remember visiting that cart and I could sorta remember how far I was standing and I kinda…calculated where his hand was. Y’know, not being able to see sucks enough,” he says, biting another chunk of glazed dough. “But instantaneous math just makes it suck even _more_.”

Castiel hums. “That is strange,” he comments eventually.

“Strange? Dude, maybe I’m like some kinda hidden Stephen Hawking. I’m definitely a genius under all this bullshit,” he insists. Maybe in cars and taking things apart. He’s pretty good at math, but Dean knows he couldn’t teach for shit, let alone be a genius.

“You do seem exceptionally smart, Dean.” It’s not a dodge, though, at first, Dean thinks it might be.

“ ‘Seem’s’ the keyword.”

“No, I mean that honestly.”

_Baby, you’re so smart._

_So, so smart._

_So why aren’t you better, baby? I know you can be._

Dean hunches his shoulders, mouth pressing into a thin line. He’s going to vomit. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh--

“Cas,” he rasps, coffee cup falling out his grasp and crashing to the ground as his hand swings round to grip Castiel’s shirt. “Cas, I’m—I’m gonna-gonna—“

Castiel has his knees touching the aluminum base of a trash can in seconds and the heavy stench of garbage fills his nostrils. He has one moment to prepare himself as he gags once and his stomach gives way. He hasn’t had much to eat, save for some cereal and the donut. The coffee’s tearing up his insides and he continues to heave until saliva’s dripping from his mouth and hangs off his chin in thick strings.

Something presses gently against his mouth, and sweeps over his chin. It’s a napkin, and he’s sure Castiel’s piloting it. Castiel isn’t cautious with his touches. His hand sweeps soothing, comforting over his back.

_You’ll be better, baby._

_You’re so smart, baby._

He doesn’t come up for air for another five minutes.

* * *

 

“I think we should talk about it, Dean.”

Dean purses his lips and drops his chin to his chest, arms crossed. He shakes his head. Tina sighs across from him. She’s taking over for Castiel while he’s on shift. Dean doesn’t want to be alone with her and her fucking questions and the answers he can hear her scratching on her stupid fucking Steno pad. He’s blind, not oblivious.

“Dean. Dr. Novak told me what happened. Today in the park.”

“Yeah? I ralphed. Rancid doughnut. Good fucking job. What the hell ever happened to doctor patient confidentiality?”

She doesn’t deserve it, he knows, but he’s too pissed off. Castiel left him alone with this stranger who wants to know about how his boyfriend is a fucking asshole that likes to badtouch him when he’s drunk off his goddamn ass. Tina doesn’t need to know. It’s none of her damn business.

Scratching. What the hell is she writing?

“What are you writing?”

The scratching stops. “I’m taking notes.”

“Yeah? What do they say?”

“They’re observations, Dean. You seem very tense.”

“Really? No fucking way. You’d be a little goddamn tense if you couldn’t fucking see, too. Let’s not fuckin’ mention the fact that Sam’s in my goddamn head like a gho—oh. Oh, okay. I see what you’re doin’.” Dean cuts himself off mid-sentence and stands. He unfolds the cane from his back pocket and begins tapping his way to the door. His steps a bit wobbly and he’s chalking it up to his mood and the _fucking blind thing_.

Footsteps across the floor and Tina’s opening the door.

“I can get the ducking foor!” he shouts, cheeks red. He’s humiliated and aggravated and so pissed at himself for letting her dig. She can’t dig. She’ll hit a fucking nugget and put it in her damn research books and Dean’ll just be a ragdoll again, ready at someone’s disposal. He doesn’t even realize the speech misstep.

Dean slips the glasses on over still vibrant green, if not a bit clouded, eyes.

“Dean, just wait a second. I’ll call Castiel and—“

“Don’t you d-dare!” He shouts so loud, trying to dislodge the weight in his chest, that he actually feels his brain pulse. And then the worst pain shoots down the back of his neck and cracks from every side of his head, crumpling him to his knees, where he can do nothing but cry out in anguish and cradle his head in his hands.

Tina shouts for a nurse and he can’t bring himself to speak through the pain, to tell her to shut the fuck up and just go do her damn job like she’s paid to do. He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s _okay_ \--

Before his eyes roll into the back of his head, a warm, large palm settles on the small of his back and a gravelly voice whispers in his ear.

* * *

When he wakes, he’s surrounded by the beeps of EKGs and a cannula in his nose.

“Not this shit again,” he says weakly. His mouth’s so dry only half the words make it out his mouth, most of them sticking in his throat and catching on his tongue.

Rustling and Dean’s head jerks to the side.

“Relax. It’s me. It’s Castiel. Here, drink this.” A straw gently pushes between his lips and he takes a few strong pulls before releasing it. 

His head throbs when he rolls it back. “Ah, hell. What happened to my head?” he asks, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead. He meets gauze and blinks. He doesn’t remember hitting his head.

A careful hand bats Dean’s away and it doesn’t feel like Castiel’s.

“Had an aneurysm, Dean-o.”

“Gabe?”

“Yeah, pal. Called me as soon as you went under,” Gabriel responds. His voice is light as his fingers card gently through Dean’s hair. Dean instinctively turns his head into it. He can handle these touches. Gabriel’s hands are familiar. Gabriel's safe, always has been. Even when he's being a dickhead. 

“I feel like shit,” Dean mumbles, eyes closing. His limbs feel heavy and his chest hurts. He suspects CPR was involved at some point. Bruised or cracked ribs, no doubt. His sinuses feel swollen, and his mind's foogy. He can only focus on the **_now_** , which is kinda alright, he supposes.

“Likely an after-effect of the anesthesia. You’ll feel better after a bit more sleep,” Castiel says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Dean turns his head towards Castiel.

“You gonna stay here?”

“Of course, Dean.”


	6. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds that freedom doesn't feel all that free.

Off shift, Castiel’s half asleep in the chair beside Dean’s bed, head nodding forward, arms crossed across his chest. The white lab coat is draped across the back of his chair and he’s left in just his badge and scrubs. He didn’t take the time to stop by the apartment and change, too afraid to leave Dean alone.  Gabriel knocks softly on the open door and Castiel turns his head, blinking groggily at his brother.

“Just me,” Gabriel says softly, not wanting to wake Dean. “Here for rotation. You should clock out and get some real shut eye. He’s not going anywhere.”

Castiel rubs his eyes and checks his watch—ten o’clock-- before sinking back into the firm cushions of the chair. He turns his head to the side and checks the EKG, which reads promising numbers. Dean’s blood pressure dropped drastically after the incident, but had risen steadily after the procedure. Now, they wait.  

“Go home, Gabriel.”

“Cas, c’mon. You’re no good if you’re exhausted. Go home, buddy.”

Castiel’s eyes don’t leave Dean. They track over hollowed cheeks and a still-healing lip, the bags beneath his eyes that never seem to go away. “I’m staying,” he says firmly. “He may need me.”

Gabriel’s gaze narrows, eyes flickering back and forth between Dean and Castiel. “Is there somethin’ going on between you two? You haven’t looked at anyone like that since Meg.”

There’s a long silence that greets the room and its stale EKG beats. Castiel scratches his fingernails through his hair and sighs.

“I don’t know,” mumbles Castiel, sitting back. “I don’t know if this is some form of backwards Florence Nightingale. There’s so much to work on, Gabriel. But he has so many redeeming qualities that it’s impossible to even think of giving up on him…”

Gabriel steps into the room and quietly shuts the door. It’s unnaturally quiet save for Dean’s loud breaths and the background beeps of his EKG. He sits in the chair on the opposite side of the bed and watches Castiel over Dean’s chest.

Perpetually-smirking lips dip briefly in a sympathetic line. “I know. He’s a good guy in a bad place,” Gabriel finally murmurs. “But he’s always been like that. You gotta give him a reason to get outta that bad place, Cas. You haven’t been around to see him like that. The stuff you’ve seen? Nothin’ compared to when he’s down.”

Gabriel sits back and folds his hands, linking his fingers, and presses his knuckles to his lips in thought.

“If this _is_ some Florence Nightingale thing, Cas, then don’t string him along. He doesn’t need that bullshit,” he mutters. “But if you do actually like him, I gotta know that you’re ready to deal with it.” Gabriel crosses one leg over the other and props his chin on his hand, gaze fixed on Dean.

Castiel’s brow crinkles.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Dean’s still heavily medicated when he’s awoken by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He sucks in a sharp breath as his eyes fly open. Weakly, his hand lifts and grasps the foreign one. Calloused hands carefully run over smooth, yet durable skin.

“Cas—?” he croaks, trailing his thumb over his knuckles. He tries to sit and immediately regrets the decision as his head throbs.

“You shouldn’t try to move. You were in surgery for several hours. Please--- don’t touch them.”  

Castiel grasps Dean’s hand and draws it away from the new crisscrossing stepladder across his scalp. The stitches don’t hurt, but his head is throbbing. He’s really getting tired of these headaches. Dean turns on his side with some difficulty, his back aching. He blinks unseeing green eyes at Castiel, eyelids heavy, but he’s not tired.

His voice is strong, but hoarse. “What the hell’s wrong with me, man? Why’s all this shit happening to me?” he asks him, fingertip trailing unconsciously along the thin hospital sheets, cataloging the coarse material. Castiel clears his throat.

“There’s been an incredible amount of stress and pressure on your brain as of late, Dean. There’s bound to be complications.”

“But y’don’t know why.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“We’re _uncertain_. We’re considering multiple possibilities.”

A heavy sigh rattles out his chest and Dean lets his head sink into the pillow. He traces the milky white and grey back and forth, eyes moving unfocused and lazy. He’s gotten used to seeing nothing, but living his life without sight is what’s screwing him over. Trying to go about his routines like nothing happened. He slips his hand from Castiel’s and pillows it beneath his head, licking chapped lips.

“Are any’a them good?” Dean can practically taste Castiel’s indecision. “Okay, are any’a them _bad_?”

“Yes,” he responds matter-of-factly. Dean’s come to realize that Castiel’s not one to dance around a topic. Short, sweet, and to the point.

Dean’s already resigned himself to his fate, so he has little qualms chiming in with, “Like what?”

“There was a strange mass accumulation of cells clustered around the first injury. Abnormal cells can indicate a brain tumor,” Castiel says. His tone is tight, but his voice remains the same as it always is. Clinical and straightforward. But it’s lacking its usual warmth.

His eyes cease their movements and Dean’s brow furrows. He blinks. “Like cancer?”

“In some cases, yes.  However, there’s the high possibility that the cluster of cells are benign and _can_ be removed by way of surgical procedures.” There’s hesitation there. Castiel doesn’t say it, but Dean can hear the _but_ straggling at the end of that sentence.

“But?”

 “There’s a large amount of scar tissue, aside from the abnormal cells. It was likely caused by your radiotherapy.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’ve never been to radiotherapy.” He can’t recall ever being drastically in a hospital. At least, not before Sam. Maybe a few broken bones when he was a teenager, but that’s all that comes to mind.

There’s a strange, pregnant pause. “Your records show you were in the hospital at ages four and five to treat a malignant brain tumor. Two times. Do you not remember?” He feels cold and the EKG echoes his startled heartbeat, beeping rapidly in the background, thinning out to a distant sound as Dean tries to recall this exceptionally pivotal point in his life. He shakes his head and blinks, his head throbbing.

“Well, I suppose you _were_ incredibly young, especially for such a traumatizing exp--- “

“---can we _not_ talk about this shit anymore?” Dean interrupts, reaching a hand out blindly to grasp Castiel’s shirt tightly and force him to _be quiet_. Castiel’s chest hitches beneath his hand, but evens out to a slow in and out. Dean’s hand is shaking, the knuckles bones white.

How could he not remember something so important about himself?

“Dean?”

It explains so much. The headaches as a kid, then the migraines. That scar on the back of his head that his dad said he got from falling into a coffee table when he was three.  Unblinking green eyes stare straight ahead, at nothing, his name echoing unrecognized in his ears.

 ** _Cancer_**.

“Dean?”

He’d had _cancer_ as a kid. And he doesn’t remember a single thing.

“Dean?”

Castiel’s voice fades back in, as do the vaguely muffled sounds of a busy hospital. It’s at this point that he realizes he can feel cool linoleum beneath his bare feet and his hand is still curled, tight-knuckled in Castiel’s shirt. There are steady hands keeping him upright as his head pulses painfully. One on his hip, the other supporting him by the under arm. The hands guide him back to bed.

“Shit,” Dean curses as he eases himself onto the bed, feeling his IVs tug viciously in his hands. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’m--- I think I’m gonna take…I’m gonna go to sleep.”

Because that’s all this is: a bad dream. Hell, he’ll take being blind over cancer any day. It’s often that Dean has a choice between any two evils and he usually chooses the lesser of the two. But here--- he doesn’t have a choice. They’re both equally life-ruining. Dean feels cold as he slides beneath the thin, starchy hospital blanket and quietly asks for another. The extra is draped over him and a hand gently rubs up and down his left bicep. Whether it’s comfort or just an attempt to give him warmth, he can’t tell. He wishes he could see Castiel’s face.

It’s not the first time.

With his growing dependency on Castiel, Dean’s been yearning to see what he looks like. With all that Castiel’s done for him these past few weeks, Dean thinks he at least owes him a direct look in the eye, something that speaks of his recognition.

The question’s nagging at him now more than ever and Dean speaks quietly, subdued, lifting a hand to settle it atop Castiel’s, which is travelling slowly, softly over the nape of his neck. “Why’s this stuff gotta happen to me, Cas?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is different, the emotions it’s conveying. He’s heard it speak gentle encouragement into his ear, heard it snap orders, but still manage to remain composed, and he’s heard it hurl insults at Gabriel. But it’s never been so soft. It sounds comforting, yet uncertain, and possibly even a little sympathetic.

It sounds like Castiel gives a damn.

“Happens to the best of us, I suppose,” is said, closer to his ear. The mattress sags gently by his hip and Dean instinctively angles his head as his ears follow the sounds of fabric on fabric.

“I’m not the best of anyone, man.”

A soft click of tongue against the back of teeth in disapproval. “That’s not true. Bad things’ve happened to you, Dean. That doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re much better than you could ever know.”

Those are loaded words and he feels an ache in his chest as he wishes, again, that he could see Castiel’s face so he could try to discern what exactly that means from his expression. Dean shifts minutely, hoping to alleviate the pressure on his stitches, and squeezes Castiel’s fingers where they still sit comfortably on the back of his neck. He thinks it’s strange that he lets Castiel anywhere near his neck after all that’s happened to him. He can still recall being afraid of Gabriel, back when the violence had first started and he’d just gotten his position at Cup O’ Bliss. Maybe it’s a Novak thing.

“Where’s Gabe?” he mumbles, eyelids heavy and fluttering as he tries to stay awake and retain this memory.

“He’s at home. Alistair has to practically force him home; he didn’t want to leave your side. I can’t say I blame him; you’ve been a little unpredictable, lately.” His tone has become lighter, but retained its comfortingly soft care. Dean’s never heard Castiel tell a joke, but he’s thinks there might’ve been a little black humor there.

“Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll try to keep it under control,” he chuckles into his pillow.

“Why don’t you save your energy and take a nap, Dean?”

He carefully shifts onto his stomach, sliding his arms beneath his pillow to drag it close. “You gonna be here when I get up?” he asks, eyes closing.

There’s a soft, “of course” followed by careful hands brushing through the hair on the back of his head, mindful of stitching and bruises.

* * *

Castiel isn’t there when he wakes up.

But Gabriel is.

“You look like shit.”

It’s harsh, but there’s a sort of caution there that lacks the usual amount of humor. If Dean isn’t mistaken, Gabriel’s actually being serious. It’s understandable, considering the past month or so’s events. Dean rolls his head to the side, cottonmouth tongue trying to gather some form of moisture.

“Where’s Cas?”

The squeak and crack of a chair and a hand on his shoulder. “Emergency surgery. Some guy got shot--- it looked pretty bad.”

Dean shifts onto his back with a pained groan. He’s not quite as groggy this time, but his head still hurts. He fumbles for his morphine button and rubs a hand across his forehead. “Man, I had a _fucked_ up talk with him.”

“‘bout the national debt? Because that was _my_ morning. There are some **_red_** people in this hospital, kiddo.”

He shakes his head. “Nah,‘s worse than that.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Dean thinks about that, and then shakes his head because, no, he’s tired of talking. He’s so fucking tired of all this depressing conversation. He’s learned far more than he’s comfortable with, these past few weeks. Frankly, Dean’s sick of it.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“ _I said I’m fuckin’ sure, Gabe._ ”

“Well, geez. Sorry,” Gabriel says, and Dean wonders how he really has the balls to sound offended. Dean grits his teeth, bites back any scathing remarks that might burst forth.

“I gotta piss,” he mutters, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. When his feet hit flat on the cold linoleum, his right knee wobbles and his left knee crumples. He’s spent the majority of the past sixteen hours in a bed, legs immobile. He wobbles. Dean has to bite back the primal instinct to growl and snap at the pair of hands that settle on his waist in an attempt to steady him. He twists away, hand wrapped around his IV stand with a white-knuckled grip.

“Dean, c’mon---“

“No. Don’t touch me. I can fuckin’ piss on my own.” He waits for the shuffle of clothing. He hears nothing. Dean sniffs. The heady scent of Drakkar Noir fills his nostrils and he clenches his teeth. “I can _smell_ you. Back the fuck up or I’m callin’ a nurse.” He hears rubber soles on the floor, the harsh exhale of Gabriel’s indignancy.

He runs his fingers along the wall, counting the steps to the bathroom. There’s only twelve of them, but it’s twelve steps he completes on his own, without someone holding his hand the whole way through. But there’s still the distinct absence of one key part --- Castiel. Dean’s gotten comfortable walking with him, talking with him, doing normal things with him. He knows Gabriel means well, but he’s tired of being treated like a goddamn china doll. He hates that there’s someone at his elbow at all times. So what if he falls? Missteps? He’ll live.

He’ll live.

The door to the bathroom creaks and Dean fumbles for the railing that runs along its walls, not bothering with the light switch. He can tell the difference (between light and dark), but it hardly matters to him anymore.

Why would he need it?

He gets his answer when he stubs his toe against the underbelly of the toilet and curses loudly, stumbling back into the sink, which leaves an ache in his back and yanks a harsh cry from his throat. He crumples to the ground, the IV stand taking him down. The needles tug viciously in his hand and he hisses in pain, his whole body throbbing. Someone pounds on the door.

“Dean, you good in there?”

“‘m fine!” he shouts, voice harsh and hoarse. “Fine, just--- gimme two shakes! Fuck.” His cast covered hand shakes as he lifts it to his face, wiping at tears of surprise, breaths rattling out shakily. Fuck. He’s breathing hard, taking in more air than he needs, chest swelling until he can remember how to exhale.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

Dean sits on the floor in his underwear and hospital gown, shivering against the cool tile. He’s gripping the IV pole so tight his wrist aches in the plaster. He’d thought getting away from Sam, getting out; getting proper care would make him feel free of the things that weighed him down.

But he feels awfully heavy here on the floor, too proud to ask for help, and too ashamed to admit he wants it at all.

* * *

Eventually, Gabriel has a security guard unlock the bathroom door and strong hands help him off the floor. Dean’s lost track of time, cheek pressed to the metal bar that runs the length of the wall, his cheeks wet and cold from his tears. Gabriel tells him he’s been in the bathroom for an hour and fifteen minutes and hasn’t responded. He’d thought something had happened. He asks Dean if he’s okay, if he needs anything.

Dean just shakes his head absently as someone helps him into bed. Everything’s far away— through water and Dean can’t swim fast enough to catch up. Eventually, he can’t tread anymore and he succumbs to sleep, someone’s hands carding softly through what’s left of his hair.

* * *

In his dreams, everything is murky. That’s how they are now. But Dean still prefers them to his new world of milk and blobs and those sometimes flashes of red he can catch. His dreams never mean anything. Random shit, as far as he’s concerned. Sometimes, though, he feels like he’s on the edge of some kind of epiphany. Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe he’s just fucked up, or maybe he’s trying to tell himself something.

Either way, he doesn’t think too much on it.

It feels like he’s being dredged out of water when he hears his name. He wakes gasping, like he hasn’t breathed in years. Dean sucks in oxygen like it’s the last he’ll ever get, and a hand settles on his shoulder. He recognizes the familiar curl of steady fingers. His own hand searches for something of purchase and grips the lapel of familiar fabric. It’s all familiar, right down the clean smell of soap and iodine.

“Dean.”

“C—as?”

“Of course. Gabriel told me you fell?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, I—uh. Shit. No, I was usin’ the bathroom. Got distracted.”

A deep, warm chuckle. Dean tries not to notice how it seems to wrap around him, wiping away the last of his post-nap panic. His breathing settles into a normal rhythm and the muscles in Dean’s neck relax.

“How are you feeling, Dean?”

Dean struggles into a sitting position, his back throbbing with the dull pain that comes with a bruise, or possibly a small cut or scrape. He favors his weight on his right side, body twisted uncomfortably.

He scratches the side of his head. “How’d the surgery go? Gabe said some guy got shot,” he deflects, not entirely sure how to answer Castiel’s question.

“He’s stabilized. And you? That doesn’t look like a very comfortable sitting position.”

“I’m fine.”

“There’s blood on the sheet behind you.”

Dean sighs and slowly shifts his gown up to mid-chest, wincing at the soreness in his muscles. “Hit my back in the bathroom. Doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“May I?”

Dean shrugs. He bows his head, gives a slow exhale through his nose. There’s the distinct sound of rubber gloves snapping against a wrist and then a careful, steadying hand on his upper arm.

“Lean forward a little more, if you can.”

Dean does as instructed, cinching his gown in his armpits so he can brace his elbows on his knees. He winces at the pull against what he suspects is one helluva bruise. The gentle touch of warmed rubber against his skin and Dean chews his cheek.

“How’s it look?”

A pause and Dean can almost hear Castiel’s thought process. “No serious damage. Just a small scrape, it looks like. It started to heal against the sheet, and when you shifted it tore the scab. Should be fine; nothing a bandage can’t fix.” Castiel’s hand settles comfortingly against his upper back. His palm is warm and Dean closes his eyes, relaxing into it.

“I’m going to put some antibiotic ointment on it first.”

The odd sensation of latex and cold ointment washes over his lower back and Dean makes a face. Then a thin bandage and Castiel briefly rubs his back. His hand lingers longer than expected and Dean finds he doesn’t mind it at all. The hand shifts to behind his neck and the other gently tugs his gown back down. There’s a long silence where Dean just revels in the soft, comforting touches, something he’s only just now become accustomed to.

Eventually, he takes his hand away, but the warmth remains, and Dean slowly sits back.

“Apart from the physical things,” Castiel says, breaking the silence. “—how are you?”

Dean’s hands intertwine, tugging at each other, picking at his nails. “I dunno. I thought getting out and everything—I thought it would help. But ‘m still not… I dunno. I’m not comfortable, I guess.”

“You’ve been through quite a few traumatic events. It’s perfectly natural.”

Dean rubs at his stitches in thought, the swelling around the stepladder accompanied by an irresistible itch. A hand closes around his and gently tugs it away.

“Don’t touch your stitches. They’re still relatively new.”

“Right. Sorry.” He lets his hand fall to his lap, and Castiel’s follows it down. He squeezes his hand, and turns his head towards Castiel. After a moment’s pause, he makes a decision.

“Hey, you wanna go get lunch or somethin’? In the, uh, the café?”

He can hear the smile in Castiel’s voice. “Of course.”


End file.
